


The Tigers are Gone Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woman reminded him a bit too much of Marion and he had no desire to wander down that disastrous path again.  No, things had not ended well between him and Marion.  Things tended to never end well between him and Innocents.  He had neither the time nor the patience these days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tigers are Gone Affair

Illya Kuryakin wiped his nose on his handkerchief and cleared his throat.  No use; the tickle was still there and still irritating him.  He took a sip of tea, shutting his eyes against the over sweetness of the honey and the bitterness of the lemon.  Contrasting flavors that he was not a fan of, but if it helped his throat, Illya was ready to try anything.

He reached for a blank report form and fed it between the platen and paper table.  A fast twist of the wrist and the report was in place.  It took a moment longer to get it lined up properly.  All he had to do was type up his notes and then head home.

Napoleon had made his plans with Mlle. de Serre adequately clear.  He dropped the report folder onto Illya’s desk, gave him a grin and went. _“_ Snap, snap.”

Illya sighed.  Normally he didn’t mind writing the reports, but tonight, his head hurt and he just wanted to go to bed.  Yet, reports were best made while the facts were still fresh in his mind.

He began typing, consulting the jumble of notes he’d made on the plane while studiously ignoring his partner and said partner’s latest paramour.   She wasn’t bad, if you liked the type.  He coughed and winced at the pull in his chest.  Right now, the only type he wanted would be motherly and bearing chicken soup.  He rubbed his chest and reached for his glasses.

He felt his mind drifting as he let the events of their latest affair play back in his mind.  Napoleon had been acting odd this trip, nearly from the first.  It wasn’t strange for him to act proprietary towards an Innocent, especially if he thought for an instant that Illya might be interested.  This time, Illya had made his disinterest more than adequately clear.

This woman reminded him a bit too much of Marion and he had no desire to wander down that disastrous path again.  No, things had not ended well between him and Marion.  Things tended to never end well between him and Innocents.  He had neither the time nor the patience these days.

Illya sniffed and took a moment to feel sorry for himself, so much for the self-proclaimed pragmatist.  _Whatever works, my ass,_ he thought.  _What happens when nothing works?_

His door slid open and his hand automatically reached for his weapon, then he smiled sheepishly at the older woman standing there.

“You startled me,” Illya murmured to the secretary he shared with Napoleon.   

“That was obvious.”  Ann Vipono set down the covered tray she was carrying on the corner of his desk.  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Kuryakin, you don’t...”

“I know.”  He coughed slightly. Not missing the look of sympathy that played across the woman’s face, he pulled his glasses off and offered her a weary smile.

“I know it’s not my place, but you need to be in bed, sir.”

“As soon as I finish my reports.”

“Surely your health takes precedence over paperwork?”

“According to Mr. Waverly, nothing takes precedence over paperwork.”  He looked over at the tray.  “For me?”

“Chicken soup, a large glass of cold juice…”  She uncovered the tray and held up a napkin.  “And a very large bottle of aspirin.”   She draped the napkin over his lap and smiled.  “But you should eat first.”

“My saving grace.”  He closed his eyes in bliss as she placed a cool hand on his forehead, then his cheeks and the back of his neck.

“More like a guardian angel.  I think you’re running a temperature. “

“If I’m not, I soon will be if you don’t stop.  In spite of what they say about me around the water cooler, I am human.”

She snatched her hand away.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean… ha, what I mean…”

“I know and thank you.”  He smiled and glanced longingly over at the bowl before returning to the typewriter.  “I’ll just finish this first.”

“Why don’t you eat and dictate and I’ll type?”

“Surely it’s time for you to be heading home.”  He was having a hard time taking his attention off that bowl of soup.

“All I have waiting for me is a can of tuna fish and a cranky canary named Heathcliff.  He can cool his tail feathers for a bit longer.”  She pointed to the small couch.  “Why don’t you sit there?”

He hesitated for all of ten seconds and then stood.  Too quickly as it turned out and he steadied himself using the edge of the desk.

“Are you---“ Miss Vipono took a step towards him and he held up a hand.  She froze in midstride and watched him instead.

“I’m fine.  I just stood up too fast.”  Illya took a deep breath and smiled at her.  “See, I’m okay now.”

“Sure you are, Mr. Kuryakin.”  _If you were any more okay, you’d be on a gurney_.  She didn’t have to say it out loud, her tone more than conveyed her message.  

She squatted to retrieve the napkin that had fallen from his lap and Illya took the opportunity to wobble to the couch and sit.  He shook his head and squared his shoulders.  When she looked back up, she smiled and carried both the napkin and the tray to him.

“Be careful, it’s hot,” she warned and Illya carefully touched a bit of broth to his lips.  Satisfied he could handle the temperature he scooped up a spoonful and swallowed happily.  She let him have a few mouthfuls before prompting, “So where do we begin?”

“With that ugly neckerchief Napoleon insisted upon wearing.”

“I think it’s called a cravat,” Miss Vipono murmured.

“I think it should be called a crime against humanity.  Why he would insist upon wearing that is beyond me.”

“There was explosive woven into the fabric.  All he needed to do was wind it around something or stick it at the base of anything and ‘boom.’  Up it goes.”  She stopped at Illya’s glare.

“And he chose to share this information with you and not me?”

“I have a good friend down in Section Eight.  She convinced him to give it an unofficial road test.”

“I was shot at and nearly ended up as tiger fodder; it would have been nice if he could have seen his way clear to mention it to me.”  Illya returned to his soup, a frown on his face.

“You know how he gets around pretty women.”  She positioned her fingers.  “Type of threat?  THRUSH or other?”

“Other, trying to incite an abdication.”

“You guys were busy.”

“He was spraying insecticide up in the mountains to force the natives down, so he could force them into working in his ruby mines.”

“Nice guy.”  

“Man with a mission – he wasn’t getting rich enough fast enough.”  Illya downed half the glass of juice and finished off the soup.

“Again, I say, nice guy.”  She was typing and scanning his notes at the same time.  “Mr. Kuryakin, what is this?”  She rose and carried the sheet of paper to him.

He squinted since he’d left his glasses on the desk.  “ _Пожертвованный козел.”_ He pronounced the words slowly.  “It means sacrificed goat.”  He tried to remember when he’d switched from English to Russian in his note taking.

“You mean sacrificial lamb?”

“No, goat.  The tigers were coming down from the mountains, half crazed with hunger.  They’d stake out goats to lure them close enough to be shot.”  He chuckled now, feeling the aspirin start to kick in.  “Goats and one lone Russian.”

“You?”  

He nodded.  “I have never understood the need to hunt for sport.  For food, certainly, but not simply for the enjoyment of shooting an animal – it makes no sense to me.”

She flipped the paper over.  “It says here that you shot one.”

“To avoid being the main entrée; I have no problems with survival of the most fit.”  A pleasant lassitude was spreading over him.  _This isn’t right, part of his brain,_ the cautious part, yelled.   “I just don’t understand what Napoleon saw in her.”

“It was what Mr. Waverly saw.”  She continued to type steadily.

“Pardon?”

“According to his notes, Mr. Waverly didn’t entirely trust Mlle. de Serre.  He ordered Mr. Solo to keep close tabs on her.  Apparently when Mr. Solo protested that it would leave you without a backup, Mr. Waverly told him you didn’t need a…. a… oh my….”

“A what, Miss Vipono?”

“Wet nurse.”

Illya chuckled, and sniffed, a useless task.  “He certainly had that right.”  He blinked sleepily and wondered when the room had taken on a slight cant.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Kuryakin?”  The woman’s voice sounded as if it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.

He held out a hand toward her and started to tip forward.  

Suddenly, Napoleon was there and easing his partner back onto the couch and down.  “He’s out like a light.”

“That should give both of us a head start.”  Miss Vipono removed the paper from the typewriter and reached for the machine’s cover.  “When he wakes up, we’d better both be in Canada.”

“Let me take care of it.  I have charms to sooth the savage… Russian.”

“I just don’t know how I let you talk me into this.  When he finds out you drugged his juice…”  She held a folder out to him.

“You’ll be well away and tucked into your warm bed.  What’s this?”

“His report.  All you have to do is sign it.”  She waited for him to take it and started to leave.  “Mr. Solo, you really are a bit of the devil.”

He grinned and bowed low to her.  “Why, thank you, my dear.”

Napoleon watched the secretary leave and smiled for a moment.  Going over to a small utility closet, he removed a pillow and blanket.

He dropped them to the couch, then heaved Illya up to remove his jacket, holster and tie.  

“Come on, Illya, at least pretend you have bones,” Napoleon muttered, bracing the man up against his shoulder.

“Napoleon… the tigers.”  Illya’s voice was sleep slurred.   Napoleon flopped Illya over onto his side to remove his shoes.  

He patted a limp shoulder and tucked the blanket around him.  He hesitated a moment, then pulled Illya’s Walther out and slipped it beneath the pillow.  “Don’t worry, partner.  The tigers are gone.”  

 

 

 


End file.
